rink? Well, just wait till I get my things off and I'll fix
a pitcher of lemonade."

"Let me do it, Mother," said Guinevere, eagerly; "I often do it at
school."

"I'd hate to drink what you make," said Mrs. Gusty, waving her aside.
"You show Mr. Opp in the parlor. No; I'll open the shutters: you'd get
your hands dirty." She bustled about with that tyrannical capability
that reduces every one near it to a state of helpless dependence.

The parlor was cool and dark, and Mr. Opp felt around for a chair while
the refractory shutter was being opened. When at last a shaft of light
was admitted, it fell full upon a sable frame which hung above the
horse-hair sofa, and inclosed a glorified certificate of the births,
marriages, and deaths in the house of Gusty. Around these written data
was a border realistically depicting the seven ages of man and
culminating in a legend of gold which read

From the Cradle to the Grave.

While Mr. Opp was standing before this work of art, apparently deeply
interested, he was, in reality, peeping through a crack in the shutter.
The sunlight was still filtering through the honeysuckle vines, making
dancing, white patches on the porch, the bees were humming about the
blossoms, and Miss Guinevere Gusty was still sitting in the hammock, her
chin in her palms, gazing down the road.

When Mrs. Gusty returned, she bore a glass pitcher of lemonade, a plate
of crisp gingersnaps, and a tumbler of crushed ice, all of which rested
upon a tray which was covered with her strawberry centerpiece, a mark of
distinction which, unfortunately, was lost upon her guest.

Mr. Opp, being a man of business, plunged at once into his subject,
presenting the matter so eloquently and using so much more persuasion
than was necessary that he overshot the mark. Mrs. Gusty was not without
business sagacity herself, and when Mr. Opp met a possible objection
before it had ever occurred to her, she promptly made use of the
suggestion.

"Of course," said Mr. Opp, as a final inducement, "I'd be glad to run
in some of Mr. Gusty's poetical pieces from time to time."

This direct appeal to her sentiment so touched Mrs. Gusty that she
suggested they go over to the shop at once and look it over.

For a moment after the door of his future sanctum was thrown open Mr.
Opp was disconcerted. The small, dark room, cluttered with all manner of
trash, the broken window-panes, the dust, and the cobwebs, presented a
prospect th